Snapshots
by Socrates7727
Summary: Clint spent years looking for her... A series of snapshots into his search and his relationship with the girl who didn't take the shot. Romance, Clintasha, Rated M for later chapters. Enjoy!


AN I do not own Marvel or any of the characters! Clintasha fluff and some smut. Updated to fix errors and to combine into one chapter/doc.

* * *

Clint had searched for years for the little girl who hadn't taken the shot.

He'd been young—maybe six—long before everything had started to fall apart. His family had been at a gala of some sort, surrounded by loud music and bright colors that whirled too fast for anyone to be sober. It was New York, or maybe LA, all he remembered was that the city stank like people. He'd seen the light reflect off her scope. At first, he thought it was just a reflection off the window; but it was an open air gazebo and, in an instant, he remembered every action movie montage he had ever seen. The glint of her scope in the darkness was unmistakable.

He knew the target: his mother. His father was a prominent oil conglomerate-in bed with a few less than stand-up guys-and it was never really clear what he did for a living, but he was powerful. He was untouchable, without the full force of the law coming down on your head. The more he thought about it, he wasn't sure why he'd thought that consequences would be a deterrent for fucking _assassins_ , but he'd thought that at the time. His father was a Goliath. But his mother? She was Goliath's wife, who never asked to marry a monster and who suffered just as much as his victims, but in a different way. Clint had mixed memories of his mother—some pleasant, some less so. She was hardly an angel but she didn't deserve to die just because she was somebody's husband.

He remembered peering up at the scope like it was a star in the sky. As clear as if it were yesterday, he could remember the feeling of something possessing him to move in front of his mother, to shield her from the gun. The assassin could have taken the shot. Probably should have taken the shot. It would have gone through both of them—the job would have been done. He'd seen enough James Bond movies to know that the job was the most important thing. But the girl behind the scope… didn't take it. He waited for what felt like years in that gala, holding his breath, but she didn't take the shot. There was no bullet to tear through his throat or his chest, no soft little _pew pew_ of a silenced gun to signify his death, and no screams from the other guests. When he looked up again, all he saw was darkness.

Something like childish curiosity flooded through him and, like any six year old would, he ran for the emergency exit stairs to chase down the assassin. It was an adventure, right? He was drawn to her before he even knew she was a _her_. But, his little-kid legs weren't fast or graceful, and he only got there in time to catch a glimpse of red hair darting down the stairs, taking them four at a time.

"Wait!" She stopped and looked back. Why did she stop and look back? The in the movies, they didn't ever stop and look back they just ran faster and harder to hide their identities. But she stopped. And she looked back at him, if only for a second. She was young—as young as he was—and the gun slung over her shoulder dwarfed her in size. Piercing ice blue eyes. They looked like she could see straight through him, if she tried. For a second, his breath caught in his throat because he may have been six, but he was a politician's child and he knew what beautiful meant. And, looking at her, he thought he finally knew what beautiful was. But then she was gone. He made it his life mission to find her then and there.

The girl who didn't take the shot.

It took a lot. He spent four years just trying to get something other than what he could have sworn that he remembered she looked like. He was only ten but his father was a sick, twisted kind of powerful and he was bored. So... he pulled a little weight that didn't belong to him and he got something. Something, finally, after four years of nothing. Наталия. It was Russian, or at least something like it, and he had no idea what it meant no matter how much research he did until he heard it out loud. His cousin Gabriel, a nosy little punk with nothing interesting to say about anything, had strolled into the room and snatched up the piece of paper. After an intense game of keep away, Gabe read the snippet aloud.

"What's so special about the name Natalya?" He shoved him out but he was amazed. _Natalya_. Gabe sneered and asked if he had a crush or something but Clint just brushed him off. Natalya. Her name was Natalya. The girl who didn't take the shot was named Natalya.

It was two years before he caught even the faintest whiff of where she was from or what she did—other than assassinate people. He spent night after night imagining her and her history. Story after story, an orphan to a rich baroness, none of them seemed to fit her. There were records buried deep in the dark side of the internet but… There was a young girl named Natalya Romanova in the Russian ballet training program at three years old. With enough digging, he found a picture of the group and sure enough that was his girl. A ballet dancer. Natalya had been a ballet dancer. That seemed to fit her.

When he was thirteen, he saw her for the second time. He'd tracked her job by job like clockwork until it was more than an obsession... but he'd tracked her all the way to Portugal. And, given that he was not anywhere near Portugal, he'd begun to plot. His father hated birthdays, and parties, and pretty much anything that meant getting the family together—or worse, spending time together. So, with his birthday less than a month away, he offered a deal. A trip to Portugal in exchange for no presents, no celebration, no family gatherings, no birthday fanfare. The next morning he was on a plane.

Traveling for the first time alone, his head was filled with everything from worry to excitement but there wasn't a lot of room for any other thoughts. Until he was in the elevator. There was silence—where was the elevator music he'd always heard about? But it wasn't there. And so, as a thirteen year old boy, his mind began to wander to the beautiful girl he was sure he was going to see somewhere in the shadows.

He had barely set his suitcase down when she appeared in the hotel room from the balcony. Her presence was intoxicating but her _eyes_. He could feel her eyes on him from miles away and despite feeling a little bit like her prey, he wasn't afraid. She hadn't taken the shot then. She wouldn't take it now.

"You're watching me." He nodded, full aware of what she could do and not in the least bit concerned. "Stop. This is your only warning." She turned to leave—so quickly?—but he couldn't just leave it at that so when she was halfway out the door he mustered up the courage and opened his mouth.

"I'm not going to stop." She didn't frown or sigh or yell, she just nodded and disappeared into the wind. But... she was beautiful, and intriguing, and there was just _something_ about her. Maybe it was hormones, or maybe it was that she hadn't taken that shot all those years ago, but he couldn't drop it and he knew, now, that she didn't expect him too. Her eyes, her voice, the way she commanded the room before she was even in it... He couldn't let it go—and he didn't want to.

The harder he dug into her past, the more he found; though it was slim and most of it seemed fake, or at least fake now that he knew her. He found at least four different names and birthdays and identities registered under her picture but none of them seemed like her. It was her face, but it wasn't her.

And that was all he did—research and track her with whatever free time he could scrounge up—for years. Sometimes it was a side hobby, sometimes it was an overwhelming obsession, but mostly it was just there. Like fixing a burnt out bulb or repainting the eaves of your house, his search for her was always just there in the back of his mind.

So, when he was fifteen, he was elated when he finally managed to track her down again. This time in Peru. The plane, the trip, the cab, and the hotel was all the same as any other trip but he had done it all before and had nothing to fill his thoughts except… her. _Natalya_. The one person who had overtaken his life and his very soul just by existing. He was ready for her this time and, before he even set down his suitcase, he smiled.

"Hello, Natalya." She appeared like a ghost from behind him somewhere and met his eyes in the mirror but his smile seemed to confuse her.

"Why are you still following me, watching me? Who hired you?" Later, she would explain the concept of Russian nicknames and how Natalya turned into Natasha with people that were close to her. Later, she would tell him to call her Natasha. It would be the first time she ever managed to make him tear up. For now, though, she sounded angry, like not understanding his amusement frustrated her. She wanted a simple answer—she wanted to be able to dismiss him like everyone else. But he shook his head because that wasn't even close to the truth. And she knew that too.

"No one hired me, Natalya. And to be honest I don't really know why I'm still tracking you anymore. At first it was because you didn't take that shot. Now, though? Now, I just am. Come sit and talk to me?" Surprisingly, she did. She sat beside him like they were friends but she was on edge.

"You're very forward, very American," she laughed.

"Forward?"

"With asking me on a date. That's what this is isn't it?" Then, he understood and he couldn't help but smile.

"Sounds like you're the one who just asked me out, Natalya." She glared. What? Suddenly she didn't like banter when it wasn't in her favor?

"What's your name?" She already knew his name, he had no doubt, but it was just a way to dodge the subject. Did she think she could play him that easily?

"I think you already know that, as well as much more about me."

"I do, but what is your name? What do I call you?" He smiled in spite of himself. There was something very… considerate about her asking what to call him. She wasn't assuming, like most people did, that he went by Clinton and she didn't distance him to a last name or jump to pet names she hadn't earned either. She didn't assume anything, actually.

"Clint." She nodded; he felt the bed move as she did.

"Clint, stop following me." He started to laugh but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. "If you aren't gone by tomorrow at eight pm I will not hesitate to slit your throat, do you understand me?" He just smiled and she stood and left, closing the door behind her, but he just smiled. And he did move for his suitcase, eventually, but it wasn't to leave, it was to unpack.

The next night, he laid on the bed with his eyes closed just waiting for eight pm. The blinds were drawn and there was no way for her to do anything other than face him—but he knew that she wouldn't snipe him anyways. Not with how curious she was. And so, he laid there and he waited, thinking about her, and, sure enough, he heard the door open and close. Then, suddenly, her body was on top of his.

He was overwhelmed with her warmth. Slowly, he opened his eyes, looking up into her familiar blue ones, but he didn't smile. She straddled his hips and held a knife to his throat with something like anger in her face but he just laid there. There wasn't really anything else to do, but it hadn't even occurred to him to move.

"It's eight pm. Did you think I was kidding?" Slowly, he shook his head. "Do you want to die?"

"You won't kill me." She snorted, her entire frame shaking with a laugh that resonated into him.

"Oh yeah? You think that spilling your blood, out of all the horrible things I've done, will be what crosses the line? Well let me tell you, cowboy, I don't have a line to cross and I meant when I said would slit your throat right here in this hotel room. It wouldn't be the first time I slit a throat, wouldn't even be the first time in a Hilton! And it isn't going to be the last! So I'll ask you again do you want to fucking die?!" He took a deep breath.

"You. Won't. Kill me." Her exasperation was clear and she started to dig the knife into his throat.

"I _will_ kill you! I will! Don't test me!" She stopped, clearly frustrated and breathing heavily just inches from his face. And then she kissed him. Her lips were like peppermint against his own, a brilliant and cold but amazing taste that flooded into him like liquor. It was fast and desperate and emotional and awkward but it was perfect. He didn't dare breathe, or move half an inch. He matched her kiss until the knife clattered across the room and she grabbed for him, tangling one hand his in hair and the other in his sweatshirt. That, somehow, was permission.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her body flush against his own, the only way it fit and the only way it seemed right. He moved one hand to the base of her skull and guided her head to tilt this way and that in unison with his own. Secretly, he was trying to test the water and see how much she would let him be in control. When she didn't push him away, he hooked two fingers in her belt loop and flipped them so that he was on top. He kissed her quickly, and hungrily, and anything but gently, but she just returned it with even more intensity.

He lapped at her throat, and her collarbone, and then down her stomach, watching her face for any kind of reaction that wasn't positive. But there was none, so he lifted the hem of her shirt and she only broke the kiss long enough to pull it the rest of the way off. In an instant, she grabbed the material of his shirt and ripped it over his head. The sensation—the friction—of their skin colliding was some kind of drug. He lost himself in it, grinding against her hips and moaning when she returned the favor. Her lips parted and their tongues fought for dominance, even when they playfully bit each other's lips. Even when they left sloppy kisses all over each other's skin.

Until, finally, he broke away. He cupped her cheeks in his hand and pressed their foreheads together as they both caught their breath. But it didn't matter, because he felt so connected to her in that moment that no amount of make out sessions, or even sex, could have ever compared. They breathed in sync for what felt like centuries until finally he took in the breath to whisper.

"Stay." She nodded against his skin and wrapped her arms around his neck, letting him pull her to lay on his chest with her head right over his heart. He enveloped her in his arms as protectively as he could and played with her hair, all the while just looking into her eyes. They didn't say anything but they didn't have to. They fell asleep like that.

When he woke up the next morning, she was gone without a trace. But he wasn't mad, he just smiled. Because holy shit… that had just happened.

* * *

Clint found her every other month after that for a year. Sometimes for a few hours in a hotel room, and sometimes for a night or so... in another hotel room... somewhere else. It was always hotel rooms, always less than twenty four hours. But regardless of how shallow it sounded on the outside, he had come to love it.

Soon, there wasn't even a question or a conversation before their lips crashed together and he felt the warm rush of her skin against his. They had such a rhythm, such an innate understanding, that it was usually only seconds before they fell down onto the bed or the couch or even the floor. The farthest they ever went were shirtless, braless makeout sessions—for hours, sometimes, especially if she had a lot of new scars or bruises for him to memorize—but it was addictive all the same. Every moment that they breathed in sync was like a concentrated form of cocaine in his bloodstream and she looked just as hungry for it as he felt. And it was amazing.

Until they were in Texas, in a hotel outside of San Antonio. He heard the click of the lock in the door—registered under a fake name, of course, but one that she would know. She dropped whatever she was carrying all over the floor, not caring what fell where, and rushed forward into him. Her body melted into his and she kissed him, roughly and like always but… something felt off. He told himself to let it go because it'd been a little longer than usual between their meetups and he was probably just nervous, right? Everything, even the way she kissed him was like normal and the way she fit against him on the bed was familiar, like coming home. She even sat up and stripped her shirt off before he got the chance, smirking down at him before returning to kiss up his neck. But something was off. He told himself to just drop it but after a minute or so, he couldn't do it.

He pulled back, as much as he could, and she tried with all her might to reconnect their lips, but it felt more and more like she was doing it to avoid his questions rather than because she wanted to kiss him. Backing off, he shook his head and put a couple inches of distance between them while he caught his breath. She looked… upset. Slowly, like he was approaching a feral cat that might just slash his face off if he breathed wrong, he shifted forward on the bed to cup her face in his hands like he'd gotten in the habit of doing.

"Hey, what's wrong?" She shook her head, pushing his hands away, and tried again to kiss him but he refused, looking into her eyes with more concern than ever. "No, hey. Talk to me. You're not okay, what happened?" She hesitated for a long beat of silence—watching him with darting eyes that screamed of fear and apprehension—but then she just… shattered. It started small, with something like a hiccup, but then before he could blink tears were streaming down her face and she was barely breathing. He tried to comfort her or hug her but she just trembled in place on the bed and repeated over and over again that he got to her. Panic pooled in his gut and seeped into his chest.

He tried to ask what that meant, or who he was, or if she was okay, but he couldn't even get more than a word out before she screamed back that she needed to feel his skin and his body and feel him inside her to wash out the bad. Clint felt like he couldn't breathe. Instantly, he backed off, watching her frame shake on the bed with something like horror. But now wasn't the time for him to be upset.

He helped her shrug her shirt back on, being careful not to touch her, and he offered her a sweatshirt from his suitcase. She protested and tried again to kiss him, even though he refused. When he refused a third time, she reached for the zipper of his jeans but he grabbed her hand and pulled it away, placing it gently on the bed beside her. Slowly, he offered her his hand. She stared at it for a minute, like it was something she had never seen before, before she reached out and shakily took it. He held his arms open and sat back on the bed, letting her fingertips trail on his palm. It was an opening, an offering, but he wasn't going to take any form of contact that she didn't want to give. She stared at him, eyes wide, like he was speaking to her in tongues.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before she even blinked. But the second she did, it was like something clicked inside her mind and she startled out of her silence in an instant. She shifted in place, and then she moved towards him. Just an inch at first, but then two and then three. She positioned herself carefully in his lap, mechanically, but he didn't move a muscle until she settled a bit and relaxed. Gently, carefully, he raised a hand to the back of her neck and guided her head to his shoulder. When she didn't flinch or say anything, he began to stroke her hair, rubbing small circles on her arm and holding her tightly against his chest. She seemed to be calming down, until she reached again to undo his jeans.

"No, Tash," Her face fell, like he'd yelled at her or something, but she pulled her hand back which was a little bit of a relief. "That isn't how we're going to deal with this. That won't do anything but make it worse. I'm not making out with you when you're clearly hurt and I'm definitely not going to have sex with you… not like this. Not for this reason. If we do ever do anything, I want it to be because you want to, not for any other reason." The tears started again, in waves that racked her body like she was being tortured. He felt like he'd slapped her or something the way she was trembling against him.

"Now, breathe, okay? You're safe here, I've got you, and a little time isn't going to hurt anyone so just breathe, Tash." She sucked in a long, sharp breath. But it didn't help stop her from clinging to him like her life depended on it, so hard that it hurt his heart. Because she was scared. And whatever it was, he hated it already. He wanted to cry seeing her like that but he couldn't, she needed him to be stronger than that. So, he wrapped her in the blankets and eased them down onto the bed. She buried herself in his arms, and he traced her face until long after the tears and the trembling stopped. They didn't say anything, even when he dropped his hand back down to the bed. Before his hand even touched the sheets, she grabbed onto his hand and clutched it to her chest like a teddy bear. Without opening her eyes, she whimpered into him so… _weakly_ that it resonated in his bones until it felt like he could die. It was all he could do to kiss her forehead and stroke her hair the way she loved and they both fell asleep.

* * *

When he woke up, she was gone per usual. He was almost disappointed because he wanted—he needed—to know that she was okay until he saw the note on the pillow beside him. Scrawled in blue ink on a torn scrap of paper _You saved me._ And it didn't answer any of the questions that he wanted to ask but it calmed the racing of his heart and he felt… better. She was okay, at least.

They were seventeen when they met in a hotel room in Idaho. It wasn't their first time in Idaho, or even in that particular town if he remembered right. But they were sprawled out on the bed and she sat back, straddling him, and looked down at him with a coy little smile.

"What is it?" But she just smiled. And, like some kind of goddess, she pulled her shirt off over her head and unclasped her bra. He grinned up at her, like usual, because the look on her face was confident and sure like she was performing for him and drinking in the spotlight. But she didn't stop there, like she would have normally. She stood with a little smirk and hooked her thumbs into her waistband, working towards the button of her jeans.

"Wait, Tash, I-" But she just smiled at him.

"I'm sure, Clint." And he believed her. The spark in her eyes, the light in her face, and the smile that actually showed her teeth... She used to never smile with her teeth—they told her it wasn't as seductive or as ladylike and it was ugly—but now? Now, standing there in that hotel room as her jeans dropped to the carpet, she smiled at him with her teeth.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" But he couldn't help himself. There was just something so perfect about her standing there in her underwear, smiling at him with her teeth and blushing the longer he looked at her.

"You're… perfect. You're perfect, Tash. Please come here." When she joined him on the bed again, he couldn't stop himself from kissing and claiming every inch of her body. It wasn't his first time. He'd had three relationships by that point—two of which were serious, long-term girlfriends. But it didn't matter who he was with or how much he liked them because there was always Natasha in the back of his mind. He had loved them all, in different ways, but it was never close to what he felt for Natasha. It wasn't Natasha's first time, either, because he could never forget that night in Texas or the unsaid implication that it was in her job description. But it was _their_ first time. And it was perfect.

For once, they took it slow, and gentle, and dare he say affectionate. It was… tender. She was raw and vulnerable with him but, still, he had to stop them more than once because she was… a doll. She used her body like a tool and based everything on his reaction like her life depended on pleasing him and he made them stop.

"No. Tash, no. I'm not a subject or a target or whatever you call it. I am here, with you, because I care about you. I want you to be happy. I want you to feel good. I want to be the reason you feel good. I am _not_ your client, or your burden, or your responsibility. I am your equal, not your superior. Please, be real with me. Say what you're thinking, what you're feeling, and if you do still want this please do it as yourself—here and genuine and with me as my equal. Please, Natasha." She started to cry at that, tears on her cheeks no matter how much she tried to cover her face with her hands. But he gently grabbed her wrists and pulled them away from her face, even when she looked away.

"Tash, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No," She cut him off with a choked little attempt at speaking. "No, it's okay. You're right." They stayed there like that for a minute, him still inside her and his hands still holding her wrists and tears streaming down her face. It wasn't weird or uncomfortable, though, because this was Natasha being real and genuine with him even if it tore her apart at the seams.

"You're right, you're right, I'm sorry, Clint. I'm sorry please don't be mad I shouldn't have…" But she trailed off when he wiped the tears from under one eye with his thumb. Sitting there, straddling his hips still, it seemed to be all she could do just to fall forward onto his chest and hide her face in the crook of his neck. He didn't mind, though. With her, he didn't think he could ever mind.

"I'm not mad, Tash, I swear to you. I'm not mad or disappointed or even upset and I won't ever be—not with you. I'm not angry. Do you hear that, hear me? I'm not angry. I'm not going to hurt you. But I don't want you to do this for any reason other than that you want to. You can say no at any point, even now. I will not be angry or hurt you, I swear." She nodded, sniffling and slowly collecting herself enough to sit up again. The tears had either dried or been rubbed into his skin by now but she still wiped at her eyes as if they were there, haunting her. But then she seemed to settle back in her own body and she nodded.

"I want this. With you. Now." He believed her. And so they picked up where they left off, not a second off rhythm or rattled by what had just happened. But from that moment on, Natasha was… different. She was more shy and needy and affectionate and whenever he showed her the slightest bit of affection, she practically melted. The sex was amazing, no doubt about it. But Clint was almost more in love with the moments after. When he collapsed on the bed beside her, both of them covered with a thin sheen of sweat, and felt her heartbeat against his skin. When she curled into him and traced patterns on his chest absentmindedly. When he played with her hair and kissed her forehead and watched her become putty in his hands, soaking in it like it was the cure to everything she had ever worried about. And, most importantly to him, when he decided to explore just how far her love of affection and being cared for went.

He retrieved a cool washcloth from the hotel bathroom and pressed it to her forehead. After a moment, when she opened her eyes, he began to run it up and down all over her body on every inch of skin he could reach. She looked at him with something like confusion but he wasn't done.

"Clint, what are you…?"

"It's okay, Tash. I'm taking care of you." So he retrieved a hairbrush from his bag—from the stash of necessities he'd started keeping for her because there was no telling what she would or wouldn't have when they met up—and he ran it through the messy, sweat-stained tangles until she practically purred at the touch. Only once her hair was dry and smooth again did he stop. But he wasn't going to stop there, either.

Her injuries and scars had always gone sort of unspoken between them. He kissed them often especially as a warm up or a cool down but he never asked anything beyond: _Is this one sore?_ And she never told him anything. But tonight there was a small cut on the bottom of her right heel that had scabbed over and bruises swelling on her right hip so he retrieved a bandaid and a bag of ice wrapped in cloth. Surprisingly, she let him treat her like she was his patient. For over twenty minutes, she let him hold the ice pack to her hip and inspect every inch of her for more injuries and kiss every scar he could find. Until he got up to put the ice pack away.

There was something so panicky and so viceral in her reaction that scared him but she was lying on the bed letting him tend to her, eyes closed and breathing calm, until suddenly… she wasn't? The second he moved away from her it was like a fire had been lit underneath her. She jolted up and across the bed, not caring that she kneeled on the ice pack, and was grasping for his hand, his arm, anything she could hold on to. Her eyes were wide and wild with fear and he let her, too surprised to do anything else. She clung to his hand and caught her breath while he just stared at her.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, finally. "I'm sorry just please don't leave me right now." He had so many questions it was ridiculous but he heard the twinge of fear in her voice and he nodded. Slowly, he moved the ice pack to the floor to be dealt with another time. She refused to loosen her grip on his hand even when he lay beside her and wrapped her in his arms, pulling her into his chest and smoothing her hair as comfortingly as he could.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again. But he shook his head because he had some small sliver of understanding. He'd asked her to be vulnerable, and she had. She'd been lulled almost to sleep by his presence and his actions only to suddenly realize he was gone. It didn't matter if it was only two steps across the room. Like jerking awake suddenly with the sensation of falling, she'd been scared to realize he wasn't beside her anymore. And as much as he wanted to question every piece of what was happening, he couldn't. He'd asked her to be vulnerable, and she was. Being vulnerable meant being scared, sometimes, and it was the least he could do to comfort her without any questions for the moment.

"I'm sorry, Tash, I didn't think about it. I'm sorry, I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere." She nodded but still wouldn't let go. It took a long time to convince her to let go of his hand in favor of his other arm so they could lie comfortably on the bed but she did it. And gradually, she relaxed in his arms.

* * *

He prayed that night, after she fell asleep, that she would be there when he woke up. But he knew that she wouldn't be, no matter how much he hoped, because that wasn't how she worked. Sure enough, when he woke up, the bed beside him was empty. He sighed, the kind of sounds that was from his bones and not his mouth, and mentally prepared himself to get over that little stab in his chest no matter how much he should have expected it. She was gone, that was how she worked and he knew that. Why had he hoped for anything different? He realized how stupid he was being with this entire situation until…

Until the bathroom door opened. Natasha stepped out wrapped in a towel with wet hair and a small smile that only grew when she saw his eyes on her.

"Morning." But he could only gape at her like a fish out of water. She was here? Actually here? She hadn't disappeared overnight?

"You.. you stayed." She smiled at him, with teeth, and he was back in that first hotel in Peru, the first time they kissed, and felt himself begging her to stay with him. He remembered her nodding, her breath still hot against his skin. They both knew that it was a temporary yes, and she would be gone by morning, but he couldn't have helped the desperation in his voice when he'd pleaded her to stay.

"You asked me to." He couldn't have helped the grin that came to his face if he tried. She just smiled back, though, crawling over onto the bed to kiss him good morning. She'd never kissed him good morning, only good night, because she was always gone in the morning but god he was already drunk on it and he would do anything to have this be his morning, every morning.

"Tash?" She pulled back and crossed her legs on the bed to look down at him with a little smile still on her lips. "What is this?" Immediately, it was clouded over by a frown.

"I don't know what—"

"Don't, Tash." He met her eyes and held them because he wanted her to know how truthful he was being. "What is this? And I don't ask that because I want some picket fence with you. I ask because if this is just a hookup or a booty call…" She swallowed hard but didn't fill the gap.

"Tash, I've wanted to say this for a long time and I was afraid because I thought that maybe that was all this was. But… I love you. I'm in love with you. And I wanted you to know it." She looked, for a second, like she was going to walk out the door but she didn't. Slowly, her lower lip started to tremble. She swallowed it down, bit it back, and took a deep, shaky breath.

"This isn't just a booty call. I… I can't say _it_ —" He started to interrupt, saying that she didn't have to say it back, but she wasn't done. "I can't say it, but I can tell you this isn't just a booty call. _You_ aren't just a booty call." And, somehow, that was as good as if he'd heard her say she loved him too.

They were nineteen, in a hotel in Kyoto, when he finally decided he was going to do it. They were lying in bed, post amazing sex, just listening to the bustle of the streets and breathing each other in, when he grabbed her hand and intertwined their fingers.

"I don't want you to leave," She sighed, deep from her bones. "I know you have to, but I don't want you to. I miss you, when you're gone, and I don't want you to go." She swallowed hard, like there was a lump in her throat from emotion, even though she looked emotionless.

"Clint, you know I have to." He did know, but that didn't mean that he liked it. Or that he was willing to just let it happen, not after so long.

"I know, and the people you work for—"

"You don't know anything about the people I work for." The sharpness of her tone didn't fail to put some distance between them, momentarily, but he just sighed. She didn't believe him.

"Yeah, I do actually. The Red Room. Chianosky, if I remember right." She gaped.

"You can't know that." He looked down at her, trying to keep her eye contact as desperately as he was holding her hand.

"Please come with me, Tash. I got recruited a year ago and they said they would—"

"Who."

"They said they would help me get you out."

" _Who_." He sighed, watching the acronyms scroll through her mind.

"SHIELD." She just sat, staring at him for a long time. Until she finally spoke.

"Do you trust them? Whoever told you that?" Clint hesitated, but nodded.

"I know how agencies and bureaucracies work but Coulson is good. Even if the entire agency hot listed him for it, he would stick to his word." She nodded, running her thumb along her chin as she sat up in bed. Slowly, her lip trembling in a way that said she was going to cry but her expression blank, she nodded again.

"Okay." He didn't think he heard her correctly—he couldn't have, right? She had to have said something more like no way.

"What?" She took a deep breath.

"Okay. I'll come with you." No fucking way. There was no way this was happening.

"Tash, are you sure? This is a big—"

"I trust you and your instincts. You don't want me to leave; I don't want to leave. Take me with you." Clint could have passed out with how many thoughts and emotions were running through his head. He was torn between yelling in excitement and reaching for the phone, but he settled for hugging her tight. She laughed but curled into him with a little too much neediness for it to be all relief and lightheartedness. He wrapped her as close as he could, still smiling.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading! Please review, it really does mean the world to me!


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